Dr Booth and Agent Brennan
by bluemuriel
Summary: If Booth were the scientist and Brennan the FBI agent, what would their first meeting have been like? AU role reversal.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: If Booth were the serious scientist and Brennan the tough-yet-romantic FBI Agent, what would their first meeting have been like?

This AU role reversal prompt is from tempertemper, during one of Live Journal's comment fic memes. I believe it came from something DB said, suggesting he and Emily reverse roles, after he came across a blurb that mistakenly labeled his character as the forensic anthropologist.

**Author's note**:Thank you to jsq for beta work back in the winter!

I started working on this last year but had to let it go due to real life concerns. Recently I finished a scene that had been left hanging, so there are several chapters after this. The current end is not a cliffhanger, but it's not quite an ending either. It might be the beginning to an AU saga, or re-writing the early episodes.

**Dr. Booth and Agent Brennan**

**Part 1**

_Brennan_

I was studying for midterms when the police came to our door. I remember sitting on the sofa with Russ, looking at the bare Christmas tree. We hadn't had a chance to decorate it yet.

The cops said that our parents, Matt and Christine Brennan, were not who we thought they were. They were Max and Ruth Keenan, one-time bank robbers. Their past had caught up with them today, in the form of a criminal named McVicor.

Russ had his arm around me, and I could feel him shaking. McVicor had murdered my mother. Dad killed him in revenge, and ran, but got caught at the state line. Even with a sympathetic jury, he would be in jail a long time.

Russ went to visit him there. But I couldn't. He made Russ promise not to leave me, and I suppose I should thank them both for that.

We couldn't keep the house, but moved to a tiny apartment. Russ got a mechanic job, repairing things like cars and electronics that he had a knack for.

Those last years of high school were when I learned to lie. To classmates, pretending my family was normal. To Russ, telling him things were fine. That I had friends; that I didn't need those trendy clothes the other kids wore. And even, when I was mad, telling Russ I hated him, when he was all the family I had.

I went away to college. Threw myself into studying: law and martial arts. I'd seen Army recruiters there, but didn't pay them much attention. Not until my senior year, and I found out where Russ had been getting that extra money he'd saved: working on stolen cars.

I stopped answering his calls, and I signed up with the Army right after graduation.

It wasn't very rational, I know. I planned to be in law enforcement, as if to redeem my family. I had to do better than they had. And keep my mother's fate from happening to others. But at the time, I was angry. And restless to get away. I wanted to shoot guns and follow orders and not have to think.

And I didn't, not until I'd been trained and tested and shipped out. Still wet behind the ears, stationed in Albania as part of the support and supply for road repair teams on the route to Kosovo.

The less said about that, the better. Those years in the Army, I found a few friends, a few fuck buddies, and more action than I wanted.

I've been over it a hundred times, whether it was bad luck, bad intel, or my mistakes in map-reading. But our convoy ran right into a train of Serb militia, fleeing the NATO air strikes.

The fight didn't last long, although it seemed to. Our enemies limped off into the night. We bled into the mud and waited for help.

Half my unit died in that confrontation, including our C.O., Kate O'Clare. She wasn't old enough to be my mother but I admired her like she was. Despite her kick-ass, get-it-done attitude, she'd surprise you with quick humor or gentleness.

Back at the base, I called Russ. Doctors had dug a bullet out of my shoulder blade. With my arm in a sling, doped up on pain meds, I don't even know what I said.

"Come home, Tempe. They'll send you home now, right? I promise, I'm back on the straight and narrow."

So I went home. My brother's running a chop shop seemed like a small thing now, and I forgave him. I recovered; I served the rest of my enlistment. Then I set the next goal: FBI academy. I threw myself into that the same way I'd done everything else. Work hard, play hard.

On break one weekend in D.C., I ran into an old college friend, Peter. Damn, he'd looked good in a judo uniform. We'd pinned each other on the mats a few times, but never actually dated. Now I had the chance to try the rest of his moves. He was leaving in a month to travel… but it was one hell of a month.

We weren't very prudent, however. The day I found out I was pregnant, I wandered the Mall in a daze.

An artist was drawing caricatures next to some flower beds, and on a whim, I sat down in front of her. She had the most beautiful eyes.

"I'm Angela," she said. "Who are you?"

"Temperance Brennan."

"That's an interesting one." She started sketching on her pad. "So, do you live here in D.C.?"

"I'm at Quantico. Studying—"

"You're going to be an FBI agent?" She smiled. "That's kinda hot."

Two days later, we were dating. Two weeks later, we were lovers. I still have the drawing she did, framed on my bedroom wall. It wasn't a caricature, though. She said my features were too nice to exaggerate, and she just had this… feeling... that she wanted to capture. She drew me more lovely than I've ever seen myself. Mysterious, too. A little haunted around the eyes, with the hint of a Mona Lisa smile.

In bed, she touched the scars on my shoulder. I felt safe with her. Like I could slow down for the first time, and sample art, museums, music. I could tell her about my parents, and some things I'd done in the Army.

Angela was there when my daughter was born. She held my hand and helped me breathe, through pain that made me swear like a sailor. I named my girl Clare Christine Brennan, and Angela knew who I honored with those choices.

I don't know what I would've done without her. She stocked up on diapers and baby food. She let me sleep when I was exhausted. And she could still make me laugh, in my first months as an FBI agent, when I'd get rattled by murder and disappearance.

But we broke up when Clare was three.

I remember coming home, putting my keys on the shelf and my gun in the safe, to find Angela storming around the apartment. Clare was crying in the next room, so I went to pick her up. "This is the last straw, Brennan." Angela pointed a finger at me as I balanced the toddler on my hip. "You said you'd be home _two hours _ago!" She kept yelling that I didn't appreciate her. That I just wanted someone to babysit and cook for me, while I ran around on crime-solving adventures. She had her own career to think about. She wanted to take classes and do something with her life, not just be a stay-at-home girlfriend.

The next day, she was gone. I spent a miserable couple of months, adjusting to being alone.

Clare was a joy, though a maddening one. I went to several Bureau meetings—when I couldn't do last-minute laundry—with my jacket buttoned over blotches of applesauce or fingerpaint.

Peter reappeared briefly in my life. He had no interest in being a dad, it seemed. And if he got angry that I hadn't told him about Clare, all I had to do was show him my gun, and he left with his tail between his legs.

I called Angela after that. We talked for a long time, and decided to remain friends.

Then, I got the unsolvable case.

"I'm not trying to sabotage you, Brennan," Cullen said as I stood in his office. "But you've made quite a name for yourself. You're smart, you're gutsy, and patient. I wish half my guys out there had those qualities.

"But, uh… it's not what I'd expect from someone with a small child. The job and the risks…" I'd heard it all before. Some people couldn't handle the idea of a woman, much less a mother, being a federal agent. "You're kind of secretive about your girl, aren't you?"

I knew Cullen had a daughter, too. "With some of the criminals out there, we should be. But I'm not purposefully secretive, sir. I just don't volunteer unwarranted information."

Cullen shrugged, and put the career-killing file into my hands.

That conversation told me what I already knew: with this case more than ever, I had to be twice as good an agent as the rest of them.

-.-.-.

_Booth_

I was always good at puzzles, even as a kid. My mom and I would sit at the kitchen table putting them together: pictures of mountains or tigers or fire trucks. Jared would help sometimes, and my dad—when he wasn't drunk, and could remember he _was _a dad.

One year they got me a Visible Man for my birthday. You could pop the plastic organs—heart, lungs, spleen—in and out of place. It helped me think in terms of units: cells and organs of the body. Bones of the skeleton. Individuals in a family, and cultures in the world.

Dad left when I was ten. He'd been drinking, of course, abusive to us and Mom. One night, she'd had enough. She threatened to call the cops, and she threw him out. I wished I'd had the courage to do it myself. To say that if he ever hurt my mom or brother again I would—

But I was just a kid. I was hiding upstairs, under a blanket with Jared.

Mom raised us after that, with Pops' help. I still wonder if he had something to do with Dad's leaving. Because Dad never came back. I don't know if he was ashamed, or sick; had left the country or jumped off a bridge. Mom never talked about it. I tried to find him, when I was eighteen. But I was too involved with school to pursue it very far.

At first I thought I'd be a doctor. But once I took my first anatomy course, I was hooked. I realized if I studied enough, was persistent and focused, I could find clues in someone's bones about how they'd lived and died. So, if I couldn't solve my own family's mystery, at least I could solve someone else's.

Studying was the way to go. I backpacked, hiked and learned my way across a couple continents. I stood knee-deep in mass graves. I discovered exotic food and customs, and went to bed with perky grad students or lovely local women. I did paperwork in tents. I even won some fistfights in foreign bars, thanks to college boxing matches.

Back home, I researched and wrote papers. I took planes to murders and mudslides, identifying bodies when no one else could. I landed a job in our nation's capital, at the Jeffersonian.

And that's when I met Bren.

-.-.-.

I was lecturing at American University when she came walking up the aisle. With a bit of a swagger, actually, eying me up and down. I ended my talk, and the sound of students packing up gave us a measure of privacy.

She was tall and powerful like an Amazon warrior (if they ever wore black trench coats).

"Excuse me." She gestured at the samples of de-fleshed bones I'd been discussing. "If you remove the flesh, aren't you destroying evidence? Bullets, stab wounds, poison…"

"All those indicators are written in the bone, if you look carefully enough."

She smirked at me. "You're Dr. Seeley Booth."

I met her confident assessment with one of my own. "That's right. From the Jeffersonian Institution. And you are…?" I stepped close to shake her hand. Damn, that was a grip.

"I'm Special Agent Temperance Brennan. FBI."

I couldn't help smiling. "That's a mouthful."

Her eyes flicked over me, as if thinking—in my dreams, at least—what else she could do with her mouth.

"They say you're the best in your field." She squared her shoulders. "I'm one of the best in mine. I think we'd make a great team."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **Thank you to jsq for months-ago beta work!

**Part 2**

_Booth**  
**_

We walked through the concert hall, looking for what could've left those bruises on the victim's bones. I was riding high, having impressed Agent Brennan with my findings. But I felt under-dressed in this opera house, with its plush carpets, arched ceilings and chandeliers. Brennan always looked good, in fitted jackets and crisp shirts; while I walked around in the jeans and travel shirt I wore to the lab. At least I'd thrown a coat over it, to be somewhat presentable.

My companion didn't look at me like I was dressed inappropriately. She looked at me with interest, and I decided to make my move.

"Have to say, I'm really enjoying working with you, Bren."

"What? Don't call me that." She might only have been upset about the nickname, not the sentiment.

"You've called me a squint."

"Well, not as your name."

"What do your friends call you? Your family?"

"They call me Brennan. Or…"

"Temperance?"

"Only my mother." Then her face tightened like she'd said too much, and she changed the subject.

-.-.-.

The next day we returned to the concert hall, with permission to talk to the suspect, if not arrest him.

Brennan started out with pleasantries. "Thank you for coming down, Judge Hasty."

"Well, as you pointed out, if I refused, headline news would read, _Federal judge declines to cooperate in homicide investigation_."

I jumped in with the main premise. "What we think is, you chased Jemma Arrington and she fell down those stairs."

"Booth." Brennan held out one arm as if to reign me in. "You're ruining my style." Then she fixed a gimlet gaze on the judge. "Ms. Arrington was trying to escape from you."

"Why?" He smiled unpleasantly. "I'm a very nice man." Then he seemed to change tactics. "The only words I ever spoke to her were, 'You have a lovely voice.' And I said them in front of about a hundred people."

Brennan's voice was soft but dangerous. "What did you _not _do in front of a hundred people, judge?"

"Ah—she's suggesting sexual misconduct." I had to admit it was clever, how she'd turned the judge's words against him.

Now he looked incredulous. "I chased her through the opera house? That's very melodramatic. And then what? I pushed her down the stairs?"

"No." Brennan took a step toward him. "She was trying to get away from you. You tripped her and she fell down those stairs."

"And she died."

This judge had a real superiority complex. I corrected him, "No, those injuries didn't kill her."

"You're making this all up!" He glared at me, then Brennan. "Who is this guy?"

She started to answer, but I did it for her. "I'm one of the best in my field. Forensic anthropology."

"Yeah?" Contempt dripped from his voice as he stepped closer. He might be shorter than me, but he had balls. "You could've fooled me."

Brennan stepped forward too, as if to defend me, and the judge noticed.

His eyes raked over her, taking in the gun holster at her hip. "You even know how to use that thing?" (Her hand twitched over the weapon, as if ready to give him a demonstration.) "And you—gonna hide behind her skirts?" Those arrogant eyes burned me another second, before he turned away. "You're ridiculous."

I'd had it. I grabbed him, shoving him back against the doorway, my fist at his throat. His hands scrabbled at mine. "Back off, man!" I didn't budge. "This is assault! I'll have you—"

"You wanna insult me, fine. We can take it outside. But don't insult the lady." I gave him a shake. "Got it?"

He grimaced in what I took for agreement, so I pushed him away. He tripped, swearing, straightening his jacket.

Brennan stood next to me. I'd seen her out of the corner of my eye, prepared to put a stop to it, for either of our sakes.

Despite the satisfaction of what I'd just done, reality sank in. "This… is probably bad."

The judge cursed once more and stormed off.

Agent Brennan, however, grinned at me. "I've been wanting to do that for years. That is… hot."

As we returned to the concert hall's entrance, I cut right to the chase. "Are you seeing anyone?"

She laughed. "You're direct, aren't you? No, I… this detective has been asking me out, and I was thinking of saying yes. But—"

"What would you say if I asked you out?"

She paused to look at me. "We can't. FBI rules: no fraternizing with other agents or consultants." Her smile was rueful as we started walking again.

"That's too bad."

"I'm glad you think so, Booth."

-.-.-.

She took me out for drinks.

Luckily, I wasn't stupid enough to talk about the case the whole time.

I told her about the types of alcohol—and other substances—I'd tried on my travels. She bragged (with just a hint of embarrassment) about the exploits she and some Army buddies had under their belts.

We tossed back another shot. This time I coughed, she said "whew," and we both laughed. She turned her gaze from the glass to me, and said sort of dreamily, "You're fired."

"What? Why? Because I tried illegal substances overseas?"

"Because you threatened a federal judge." I couldn't tell if her eyes were flinty or admiring. "You didn't need to, you know. I'm more than capable of defending myself."

"But you said it was hot."

She drank another shot and slammed the glass on the bar.

"Damn." She sighed. "It was. Very hot." I couldn't help looking at her lips, and her hair. She had it pulled back, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Now she leaned toward me. "If we're not working together anymore…" That throaty voice transfixed me. "…we could have sex."

"I'll call a cab."

-.-.-.

_Brennan_

His tongue teased against mine, hot and silky. Rain whispered around us, its freshness almost washing away the bar's cigarettes and beer.

I leaned into him, my arms around his neck, his hands on my waist. Too many layers separated us: my trench coat, his jacket. We paused and I felt his breath puff on my cheek like an impatient horse.

This man. This maddening, brilliant scientist. I wanted to take him home and strip him bare and—

But I had my little girl waiting, with the babysitter. I had to read Clare a bedtime story and make sure she brushed her teeth.

Not take a strange man into my bed just because I found him exhilarating.

The taxi honked and I pushed Booth away, laughing despite my disappointment. "We are not spending the night together!"

"Of course we are. Why?"

Opening the car door, I started to answer. But my cell phone rang and I swore, searching my pockets. Squinting in the rain, I saw it was the nanny, Sarah. "Sorry, Ms. Brennan. But it's almost eight and I have to…"

I groaned. "I know, I said I'd be home half an hour ago. Okay…" Glancing at the taxi driver, I told Sarah I'd be there in ten minutes.

Booth stood watching me. Tiny raindrops glittered on his hair and the shoulders of his jacket. Bluntly, I told him who had called.

"Nanny? So… I didn't know you had a kid."

"A daughter. She's almost four."

I said it proudly, but saw his shoulders slump a little. Which I should have predicted. They usually run, hearing that.

Then he stepped forward, waving his hand at the cab driver to get him to wait another minute. With the car door between us, Booth lowered his voice. "I guess, uh… we can't go to my place instead?" His eyebrow quirked, enticing, though futile.

I could have said, _Can I take a rain check? _Or, _Your place. Screw the babysitter_.

Instead I gave his chest a parting tap. "Sorry. Tequila," as if that explained it. I got into the cab, but rolled down the window at his arrogant grin.

"So, you think that when I look at you in the morning, I'd have regrets?"

Laughing, I closed the window. "That would never happen."

He stood on the street, coat tails flared out in the rain. I watched him through the glass as we pulled away, rivulets of water distorting my view.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

_Booth_

I walked into the lab hungover.

Hodgins started talking immediately but I held up a hand. "Coffee."

Someone offered a mug. "Here's some coffee, Dr. Booth." It was the first time I was glad to have this intern around.

"Daisy told me how bad you felt about boiling all the particulates out," Jack went on. "But I was still able to get microscopic samples from the bones."

"Dr. Hodgins found tiny fragments of steel and traces of lubricating oil." Daisy was much too chipper for this time of the morning. I gulped the coffee she'd given me. It burned a trail down my esophagus, but the caffeine would take a minute to kick in.

"We compared manufacturing specs from the judge's trunk to the victim's head wound. One of them…"

I interrupted their jabbering to blurt, "We got fired."

"What?"

"Fired? Because you slept with the FBI woman?" Hodgins had met Bren when he tagged along to the prosecutor's office. (Caroline, however, was unimpressed with his talk of particulates. _Microbes don't win cases! Maybe if you had some fancy computer simulation, with a lot of bells and whistles…)_

My team still gaped at me as we stood in the middle of the lab. "I got us fired because I shoved a judge into the wall. And no." I answered Hodgins' question. "I didn't sleep with her."

"Why not? Come on, beautiful woman with a gun? Hey, if you don't, I will."

I ignored him. "Daisy, take all the evidence to Brennan at the FBI. Then we can go back to the work we're supposed to be doing."

-.-.-.

I was examining bone casts from a fossil hominid when Brennan walked into my lab.

"Guess what," she said flatly. "We're hiring you back."

"Yeah, well, I'm busy."

"Not too busy for murder." She tilted her head, frowning at the casts in front of me. "What is that?"

"Fragmentary remains of _Ardipithecus ramidus kadabba_, a four-point-four million year old—"

"Okay, that's great. You're taking a break now. We have a warrant for the judge's car." I didn't move. "Let's go, Dr. Squint. Get your coat."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not one of your Army buddies. And I don't take orders from you."

Standing over me, she drew herself up. "This is the federal government, Dr. Booth. When we say you're back on the case, you're back on it."

-.-.-.

We searched the judge's car.

I'm even not sure why we argued, while the FBI techs ran their investigation. We'd parted on good terms after Brennan fired me at the bar. Disappointment about lack of sex shouldn't be enough to sour a relationship; and if I thought about it rationally, I understood why we shouldn't fall right into bed.

But I was still pissed at her. (Maybe I could blame it on residual toxins from the alcohol circulating in my system.) She'd jerked me around: getting me drunk and firing me, suggesting a sexual encounter, then telling me she had a kid and leaving me standing on the street corner.

Now, in this parking garage, we just kept goading each other. If I had to analyze my behavior, I admit it was juvenile: I liked getting a reaction out of her. I imagined she'd be glorious in bed. But I could see she was magnificent in anger.

It all came to a head two days later, when we were talking to Jemma Arrington's mother.

I'd rarely had to deal with family. The bodies I identified were either centuries old, or else my interactions were buffered by law enforcement personnel.

No buffer today, however.

The three of us sat in a musty FBI conference room. I bet Brennan would accuse me of being insensitive. Too blunt about the crime or the girl's remains. Whatever the reason, she cut me off mid-sentence. Grabbing me by the arm, she hauled me up and propelled me out the door in front of her.

"Hey, let go of me!"

"I will, if you would—"

I twisted, pushing her away. She must not have expected resistance. Despite the strength I knew she possessed (based on observations of her musculoskeletal system), she had to take a step back. Her shoulder struck the doorway and she winced. Part of my mind categorized it for future reference: she must have a prior injury there.

Her eyes flashed fire and she stepped right into my space. "_No one _pushes me around."

Maybe I should have backed down, but her anger roused my own. "I _will _push around people who try to intimidate me—with power that someone _else _gave them. That judge with his title and you with your gun—"

"How dare you compare me to him. I've worked hard for everything—" She shook her head in sharp dismissal. "At least I don't use my big brain to make everyone else feel inadequate!"

"Well, maybe you are inadequate!"

Color flooded her face, and I realized that was not the thing to say to a single mother and a woman competing in what was still a man's field.

"_Get out." _Her voice came low and venomous.

"Gladly." I grabbed my jacket from a chair. People had been staring from the desks behind us, but I strode past them all on my way out of the building.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** Thank you, jsq, for the excellent suggestions.

**Part 4**  
_Booth_

The next weekend I bonded with Hodgins over beer and football. And lamenting women in general. It didn't take long for the discussion to come round to Brennan.

"You want her, right?"

We sat at a table at the local sports bar. My team had just lost, and now we were (halfheartedly) watching the commentary and replays.

"Yeah, but… it's complicated."

"Complicated," Jack repeated. "Which part?"

I shook my head. The case… the tequila… our fighting. It was too hard to explain. "I'm not going to go crawling back." My ego and sense of manliness did have their limits. Even when I know they're cultural constructions, they still matter to people in that culture.

"Dude. She's not worth swallowing your pride for? Beautiful woman with a weapon, I tell you…"

"You really have a thing for that. How many _Guns & Ammo Summer Edition_ do you have under your bed?"

He looked unperturbed, and went on before I could find an answer to his question. "Well, if you're not gonna go out with her, do you have any objection if I do?"

"Ha." I gave him a friendly punch in the arm. "That's way too much car for you."

"How do you know? Just because you've traveled the world doing dangerous or humanitarian things…" He gazed reflectively at the TV. "Maybe she likes rich guys. You think?"

"Just how rich are you, anyway?"

He gave me a look. "Two entire wings of the Jeffersonian exist because of my family's donations. I'm rich enough to buy the lovely G-woman anything she could possibly want. If she's the type to go for that."

"Yeah, well, I don't think she's that easily won. Unless you want to pay for her daughter's future education…"

"Oh, yeah. There is that." He looked doubtful. "I dated a woman with a kid once. Little tyke hated me. He hit me with a plastic truck!"

"It sounds too risky, then. Brennan's an expert with guns and martial arts. There's no telling what she's taught her kid."

Hodgins saw right through that. "You said her kid was only four. You're full of shit, man."

-.-.-.

I nearly called Brennan a few times over the following months. But then I got summoned to a mass gravesite in Guatemala, and there's nothing like genocide to take your mind off romance.

When I got back, Hodgins picked me up from the airport. Squeezing into the front seat I complained, "Did you have to take the tiny toy car?"

"What, you're traveling light." We headed for my apartment, and he started quizzing me about the things I'd done and the people I'd met.

"If you want to know whether I slept with anyone, the answer is no. I was neck-deep in a pit of corpses. Not exactly conducive to…"

"Okay, all right." A slow grin spread over his face.

"Wait a minute. You went out with someone?"

"Well… I don't know how to tell you this, but you were gone, so…"

"You went to bed with the FBI woman."

He must have heard the sudden, repressed anger in my voice. "Sadly, no. I would have… I did ask her out. We went on exactly two dates. She wouldn't sleep with me, I didn't meet her kid… But then I met this old friend of hers. An artist. Her name's Angela." He looked at me with a goofy smile, his eyes big and shining.

"Oh, no."

"I think I'm in love. Plus, she's working at the Jeffersonian now."

"The artist?"

"Yeah. See, when I was talking to Brennan, we were going over that case and how we all worked together…" I wanted to correct him that we didn't _all_ work with Brennan. Just me. "…how that prosecutor was saying she wanted some fancy computer simulations? Well, Brennan knew this girl who's like a computer genius, and an artist. So if she just took some medical drawing classes, then—"

"You hired someone to my lab without consulting me?"

"Well, technically it's Goodman's lab. He hired her."

"Great."

"No, it is great. She's totally hot. And smart. Maybe not that interested right now, but… I talked her into taking this job, even if she just wants money to go back to Paris. I've always wanted to go to Paris with an artist…" He sighed, then looked over at me. "She's Brennan's ex-girlfriend, you know."

"What?"

"Oh, yeah. They were an item. For about four years."

I pondered that. Hodgins smirked, and I could guess what kinds of things he was picturing. "Well," I said. "This is going to make for some interesting interactions at the workplace."

-.-.-.

I let myself into my apartment, the duffel bag weighing down my shoulder. But I nearly dropped it as soon as I got inside, because someone was already there.

"Jesus!" I'd jumped about a foot in the air.

"Booth," Brennan greeted me calmly.

"What the hell? You can't just barge in here."

She ignored that, nodding toward the windowsill. "Looks like one of your plants died."

"What? Damn it." I left my bag by the door and went over to look at the dry, wilted leaves. "I knew I should've had Hodgins house-sit. You'd think a grad student from the Jeffersonian's conservation biology department would have been able to take care of a couple plants." (I didn't mention to Brennan that I'd also slept with that grad student a few times.)

I turned to see her standing in the middle of my living room, feet planted wide like she owned the place.

"We need your help on another case."

"And this is how you ask me? By breaking into my apartment?"

"I didn't break in. I requisitioned a key from the landlord." She narrowed her eyes. "Would you have preferred I have airport security hold you for questioning?"

I swore under my breath. "Why should I agree to help you, after the last time?"

"Because I was right. We did make a good team. We solved a case that no one else could."

She had a point. And yet…

I had to needle her a little. I had to know if…

"Come on, Bren." I advanced on her. She stood her ground, of course.

"Don't call me Bren."

My voice sounded low and rough. "Why do you want me to help?"

"You should be happy to help. This is what you live for, isn't it? Horribly decomposing dead bodies?" Her voice sounded husky, and she took a step toward me. "You like to get your hands right in there, don't you? Poke and prod around people's intimate places… get them to tell you their secrets?"

Her voice taunted, and God, I liked it.

"Bren. You don't have any idea what you're talking about." My tone teased her right back, soft and silky. "But you still haven't told me why you want my help." She raised an eyebrow. "I don't mean for the case, or for your boss. I mean for _you_."

"You're trying to make this personal. It's not." Oh, but her voice contradicted her. Her whole body contradicted her. She stood almost nose to nose with me, her smile sultry and disdainful.

"No?"

"No." Her eyes locked defiantly on mine. She knew the game I was playing, and she wasn't going to give in. I wanted her to admit that she needed or wanted—or hell, _liked_—to work with me.

"This is just business?" My gaze roamed down from her face. For once, she wasn't wearing a dark Bureau blazer. Just a buttoned-up blouse that showed the hollow of her throat.

"That's right, Dr. Booth." Her voice caressed the words.

Damn. I had to break first. "Okay then, Agent Brennan." I tore myself away, going to pluck my dried-up plant from the windowsill. "I'll help you on this case. If you do something for me."

"What's that?" She sounded half curious, half suspicious.

"I want to take part in all the cop stuff. Not just lab work. Everything."

"_Everything_?" Her frown was scornful. "Squints don't belong in the field. And my boss would never go for it."

"Oh, I'm sure you can convince him." She looked indignant, like I'd suggested sexual favors. I smiled innocently. "Do we have a deal?"

She watched me pour a cup of water over my surviving plants. "A deal," she said slowly. "Yes." Then her tone turned challenging. "We need you at the crime scene, today. If you think you can handle it."

"I'll handle it. Just tell me where to go." I faced her. "Now please get the hell out of my apartment."

She turned to leave, smiling like she'd won a victory.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **Thank you to jsq for the beta read.

**Part 5**

_Brennan_

Booth was an arrogant man. But he and his team did what he promised: they delivered the evidence, and we solved the Cleo Eller case.

At the young woman's funeral, Booth was the opposite of arrogant.

I'd learned he was a decent marksman, though he'd shot Ken Thompson, the senator's aide, without warning. When the squints called me with a tip, I flipped on my car siren and peeled up to the house. I came dashing in to find Booth aiming a gun, surrounded by turquoise aquariums, in a room that reeked of gasoline.

The suspect lay groaning on the floor. His wound didn't look serious, so I told him I'd already called for help, and he should apply pressure to slow the bleeding. (I wasn't going to do it for him, not without gloves, and not when the guy was a murdering bastard who'd almost set fire to the evidence.)

I holstered my weapon, but Booth still had his trained on Thompson. "I don't understand," he ranted. "Cleo wouldn't get rid of her boss's baby, so he got rid of her? What kind of motive is that?"

I took a step closer. "He did it to save his job."

"His job?" Booth was a little in shock, I think, staring at the man he'd wounded.

Gently, I took the gun from him, and explained. "If there's a scandal with the senator, Thompson loses his ride to the fast track. Simple as that."

Booth shook his head, muttering. "The evidence says he did it but I couldn't think why."

To distract him from the man moaning on the linoleum, I asked where he'd learned to shoot.

"At a firing range." Booth blinked at me, like it was obvious. "And with my grand dad. He took us bow hunting when we were old enough, me and my brother. I'm very good at it." He looked down at Thompson. "But I never…"

_I never shot a person before. _I could bet that's what he was going to say. Because I knew that feeling; even if I hadn't seen, my first time, the injuries I'd caused.

Now, at Cleo Eller's funeral, I heard that same tone in Booth's voice.

He'd left the gathering at the gravesite, and I walked with him across the grass. It was a beautiful day, sunny and cool. The black clothing of mourners looked somehow out of place.

Booth nodded toward the victim's parents. "I'm glad they finally know what happened. Even if it's bad news. Because not knowing…" His jaw tightened, and I could guess why. I'd done my homework after our first case. I knew his father had left when he was a child, and never been heard from again.

"Not knowing," I said, "is worse." I felt Booth glance at me, but I stared straight ahead, as we walked under tall trees. "The reality's not as bad as what you can imagine."

When I looked at him, he seemed about to ask a question. _How do you know what it's like? _His face was more open than I'd ever seen it, and suddenly I could picture him as a child: big brown eyes, unruly hair. But defensive, when he should've been happy. In those files about his dad's disappearance, there'd been the suggestion, from neighbors and teachers, that the man had beaten his wife. Maybe his kids.

I met Booth's eyes and thought about my own family. My parents hadn't been gone for long before we found out what happened. But my dad refused to talk about it. Russ and I still don't know the details of my mother's death. One day, she was just gone. And Dad went to jail for vengeance.

Booth cleared his throat. We'd reached the road that wound through the cemetery, and gravel crunched under our feet. Tree shadows patterned the ground and the shoulders of Booth's suit. I hadn't seen him dress that nicely before. The solemn hues and lines looked good on him.

His voice was soft when he spoke again. "Why does this job matter so much to you, Brennan?"

I hesitated. I couldn't very well say, Because I come from a family of criminals. Because my parents robbed banks, my brother ran a chop shop, and I have to be the one person who stays on the right side of the law.

"Because… I need to set a good example. I need to make the world safer for my daughter."

Booth looked at me sideways, but didn't challenge that somewhat stock answer.

"I mean, let's face it." I gestured back at the funeral, where people were starting to disperse. "The world is a mess. I try to… impose some order on the chaos."

Booth nodded to himself. Then he put his hand on my arm so I'd stop, and looked me in the eye. "I'd like to help you with that."

I cocked my head, as if doubting his qualifications. He must have realized I was messing with him. "Come on, Bren." His mouth quirked up. "I understand you here. I mean, science is all about discovering the order that exists in apparent chaos."

"I'm not talking about science."

"Yeah, because you're not a scientist."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

We started walking again, arguing as we went.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: **Thank you to jsq for the suggestions. Have you readers found any of her work? Please go read some. It's fabulous.

**Part 6**

_Booth_

Having Angela in the lab was a great help to us, professionally. Her computer simulation had accelerated the victim identification process. We'd all gathered around the holographic projection, watching the girl's image slowly rotate. Brennan stood across from me, her face bathed in golden light from the screen.

"That's pretty cool," Hodgins said. Angela gave a graceful shrug, while Brennan, who already knew something of her friend's skills, smiled.

But the artist could have ruined my friendship with Hodgins. He'd been smitten with her right from the start. But she, it seemed, was smitten with me. And she made sure I knew it.

The first time I saw Angela she was sitting on the table next to Jack's work station. They were laughing about something, but when she caught sight of me she stopped laughing and slid off the desk.

"Well, hi." Her pupils dilated so her eyes seemed to sparkle. "I'm Angela. Montenegro. You must be Dr. Booth."

"Just Booth. I've heard a lot about you, Angela." Shaking her hand, I glanced meaningfully at Hodgins.

"None of it good, I'm sure." Her smile turned mischievous, while her eyes made a brief, appreciative study of my face, my shoulders—and lower.

I heard a faint snap, and knew it came from the rubber band Jack wore around his wrist. I should give the guy credit for trying to handle his anger. But it was an odd strategy, I thought. Not my style. Still, he hadn't needed that thing for a while.

Angela turned at the sound, and Jack grinned weakly. Then he reached for his microscope like it was a life preserver.

Angela didn't ask me out, but she would drop sexy suggestions at random intervals. One week it was leaving risqué cartoons on my desk. The next it was watching me put on my lab coat and saying, "So, Dr. Booth. You ever _play doctor _in that outfit?"

Hodgins overheard, and muttered, "Only for dead people, Angela. Trust me, it's not a pretty concept."

As we were leaving that night, he whined about it. "I was afraid this would happen! It's just like the symposium last year, and those two women who started flirting with me. As soon as you showed up, I might as well be pond scum."

"You study pond scum," I pointed out. "Can I help it if the artist thinks I'm hot?"

He stopped abruptly as we entered the stairwell to the parking garage. "Are you gonna sleep with her? Because if you are, I'll… I'll have to challenge you to a duel or something."

I didn't laugh. I tried to tell him Angela was just teasing. That healthy adults in many cultures indulged in innuendo, and that males of the species often had to compete for mates.

"Yeah, yeah." He waved it off. "Just—if you are gonna sleep with her, wait a little while, would you? To give me a fair shot."

-.-.-.

Our sexual intrigues at the workplace got interrupted soon after that. An SUV had blown up outside a café, and we got called to the scene.

Angela, Daisy and I threaded our way between ambulances and a TV news crew. We'd heard the sirens and smelled the smoke from blocks away. When I spotted Agent Brennan talking to firefighters, I hailed her with, "Where have you been? You said you'd meet us on the corner."

"We're a little busy, if you hadn't noticed." She wore one of her ubiquitous dark jackets, and her face was expressionless.

Once she got us past the cop guarding the crime scene, I went to work, rolling up my sleeves and surveying the debris.

"God," Angela said. "What's that smell?"

"Burned flesh." I addressed Brennan. "How many casualties?"

"One known dead. Fifteen injured."

"Tell me details. Whatever you have."

She summarized. Based on witness accounts and vehicle registration, the dead man was of Middle-Eastern descent, and a well-known White House consultant. "If he's a terrorist—"

The Homeland Security agent (whose name I'd already forgotten) concluded for her. "Then we have a really big problem."

I was busy peering into the charred car. "We'll need surgical masks and gloves for the retrieval team, sterile medical bags, and vegetable oil."

"Vegetable oil?"

"It will loosen seared body parts stuck to the metal. Like steak on a grill."

Brennan winced. "I'll take your word for it."

"Daisy." The intern looked more subdued than I'd ever seen her. "I'll need perimeter photographs. You know what to do." She nodded and scurried away.

As I stepped over to the remains strewn in the street, I heard Bren say, "It's okay to be upset."

I glanced up grimly. "I wish this was the worst I've seen."

Then I realized she was talking to Angela. The artist held an evidence bag, but her shoulders were hunched and she was trying not to look at her surroundings. I straightened up with a piece of tibia and calf muscle in my hand. Angela dropped the bag, shaking her head. "I don't think I can—sorry!" She fled.

I turned to Brennan. "What about you?"

"I'm fine." She held a bag too, standing very straight. Not a wisp of hair escaped the knot at the back of her head. Maybe it was her stoic expression or her alert, wary posture. But she looked, suddenly, like a soldier.

I lifted a crisp, cooked leg with the shoe still on. It felt heavier than it appeared, and made a soft crunch when I placed it in the evidence bag.

Brennan never flinched.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: **Thanks to jsq for beta work.

**Part 7**

_Booth_

I looked up from the medical records stacked on my coffee table to see Angela standing in my office doorway.

"Hard at work? What a surprise."

"I have to find out if the man in that car really was Masruk."

She shifted, suddenly ill at ease. "Look, I—I know you needed help out there, at the crime scene. And I wanted to, but…"

"It's okay," I told her. "I don't see it anymore. You do." Leaning forward on the couch, I frowned at a doctor's report. "The family said Masruk had been sick, but they were still running tests to find out what it was…"

Angela came closer, but didn't sit down next to me. "Hey, um… I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. You know, with the flirting. I'm just having fun. Even if it's not quite appropriate for the workplace."

"I don't care about that. As long as we do our jobs." I let a slow smile turn up my mouth. "It _is _fun."

She narrowed her eyes. "You say that… but you don't see the way women look at you. Like half the women in this building? They see this brooding, darkly handsome guy. A girl could dash her heart to pieces against you, and still never crack the mystery. Never plumb those secret depths." She was kidding, I think. She cocked her hips, her face wearing a wry half smile.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well." She shrugged. "I don't think we should sleep together."

"What?" I coughed.

"We're colleagues, right? It could get weird. And I don't want to jeopardize this job. It's the best one I've had in a while. I mean, aside from all the death and destruction, charred-body-parts-in-the-street kind of stuff."

"Okay," I said warily. I could never know what to expect with this girl. "What about Hodgins? And the… flirting."

She considered. "Hodgins could be fun. More lighthearted than you. And he's kind of cute. Just don't tell him I said so."

-.-.-.  
_Brennan_

While waiting for the squints to run their tests, I went to the firing range.

It was a good round. I was evaluating the bullet holes on my target when I sensed someone behind me.

Angela stood there. She took off the pair of earphones and gave me a thumbs up. I took mine off too, and walked with her into the staging area just off the range. Despite safety precautions, my ears rang a little. Just like they had years ago when I was recovering from my shoulder injury. But I knew this was a temporary phenomenon that subsided in a few minutes.

"Any news from the Jeffersonian?" I asked.

"Nah. They're still messing with their beetles and their skull reconstructions. My work day is over."

I settled my gun back at my hip and turned to leave.

"You doing okay, Brennan?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You tend to come here when you're upset. Or you spend more time with Clare."

I smiled ruefully, if she knew me so well. "That's where I was going after this, to pick her up from daycare. You want to come? The teacher said something about art projects."

Angela took my arm as we walked outside. "Do you think your fridge has space to display any more?"

"Probably not. I think you're rubbing off on her."

She beamed. "Can I get a ride with you?"

"Of course."

We walked through the lot to my car. "Booth seems to be working out pretty well," Angela said.

"What do you mean?"

"Him, his team—me—I'm part of that team now. Don't you think we're doing well?"

"Yes. I do. I knew you'd be a help to them. I'm even… impressed, I suppose. Booth is more sensitive to different cultures than I'd have given him credit for. He's still too blunt, but he said some nice things to the victim's family. He knew about their religion and traditions."

"Yeah, you see? He's not just a pretty face and a way to get yourself that corner office."

She smiled deviously, and I grimaced. I pulled the car out into the street, using that as an excuse not to answer.

"Come on, Brennan. If I were you, I'd buy a ticket on that ride."

I groaned. "You mean you haven't?"

"No. I have been the picture of professionalism."

I gave her a look.

"Okay, maybe not the _ideal _picture." She turned a critical eye on me. "I bet you could find out his secrets."

"What makes you think he has secrets?"

"Sweetie, everyone has some. Especially someone as… intense as Booth. You're a good match for him that way."

"Angela…" My tone warned her not to continue. She sighed dramatically, but rode in silence for a few minutes. "So, are you gonna tell me?"

"What?"

"Why you're not going out with Booth. Or why you went to the firing range."

"I went to the firing range to practice my shooting."

"You know that's not what I mean. It's because of this case, isn't it? That we might have a terrorist on the loose." Angela's voice became very soft. "Did it have anything to do with… that scene where the car bomb went off? I mean… I'm sorry I couldn't do it, Brennan. But—"

"Don't apologize, Ange. You shouldn't have to see those things."

"But _you _did. Was it… was it like stuff from the Army?"

That was a very generic question. Still, I understood. "No. Not on the surface. It was more… it was the smell. That part was similar."

Angela shivered. "But no, um… no flashbacks?"

"Nope."

"Good. That's good."

"Yeah."

I'd only ever had one. At least, one bad one. It was early in my relationship with Angela, not long after I got pregnant with Clare. I wonder if that's part of what set it off: the anxiety about how my life would change. I'd been through most of the FBI training by then. I'd learned about the most disturbing cases. And I'd just been tested on the Firearms Automated Training System, making split-second decisions whether to shoot assailants or to protect unarmed civilians.

Whatever the catalyst, I scared Angela pretty thoroughly.

I got up before dawn one morning, in this kind of waking dream. Angela said I was running around trying to find things, not realizing I was in my apartment. I had to radio for reinforcements, I said. I had to get my weapon, the M16 or even the MK19. I was convinced my friends were in trouble and we had to fight back, we had to get help.

All I remember is coming out of it. I was standing by the front door, my hand on the knob and my heart pounding. Angela was pulling on my other hand. She was desperate, slapping me and crying. "Wake _up_, Brennan!"

I went to see a Bureau shrink after that. I can't say for certain that it helped me. We did deal with some memories, and concerns about having a child while pursuing my career. But that kind of flashback never happened again. And it's a miracle Angela stayed with me.

I looked over at her on the passenger side. She looked so pretty, with the setting sun glinting on her hair and touching the necklace at her throat. It was one she'd made herself, silver and turquoise.

"Do you want to stay for dinner?" I asked. "We could get whatever food you want, on the way. And maybe take Clare to that park, the one with the big swing set and the painted gate."

She smiled. "Sure. I like that one."

-.-.-.

Two days later, Booth's team discovered where the car bomb had been made. We went to Farid's apartment, finding bottles of chlorine, ripped-out insulation—enough to tell us that he had another bomb, and he was out there, right now.

At a peace conference, at the Hamilton Cultural Center.

Booth and I hurried through the lower level, past sculptures and people in multicolored ethnic garb.

"Shouldn't the reinforcements be here by now?" He clearly wasn't used to this.

"It takes time to mobilize a swat team. And I told them to stay back. If we spook this guy, he could blow himself up."

We rode an escalator to the second floor and Booth pestered me again. "If you see him, will you shoot?"

"He might not have the bomb."

"You don't believe that."

"I won't take out a target unless I'm sure."

"A _target_? Does that term make it easier?"

Craning my neck, I saw Agent Gibson near a side door, gun at the ready. "You picked a strange time to have this conversation."

The next minute, Booth pointed. "There! That's Farid." A man on the first floor was walking under an ornamental tree, away from us.

I drew my gun, eyes trained on the back of the guy's head. "I can't be sure."

"Look, his gait is affected by the dioxin poisoning and the parietal bones match his picture."

I shifted my feet. "What if you're wrong?"

"I'm not. He has all the markers, Brennan!"

With every second, he was getting farther from me, and closer to the crowd of civilians. "I won't shoot him in the back!"

Booth took a quick breath and yelled, "Farid!"

The man turned so I could see his face. I aimed right for him and ordered, "On the ground!" He didn't do it. His hand moved toward the bag. I steadied my weapon and shot him in the head.

People screamed, scattering away from where he fell.

Officers converged on the location. Agent Gibson bent down, shifting Farid's hand away from the trigger of the bomb. It _was _a bomb; Gibson pulled the camera bag open to reveal the mess of wires.

I released a deep breath, holstering my weapon. I could feel Booth looking at me. He glanced down at the dead terrorist, and the roomful of conference-goers.

When he turned back, all he said was, "Nice shot, Bren."

-.-.-.

**AN:** My beta said, 'I'm starting to root for Bren and Angela to get back together.' What do you think? :)


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: **Thanks to jsq, my excellent beta, and to real-life friend la mome for a quick consultation.

I include a poem titled "Nautilus" near the end of this chapter. It's by Joy Harjo, and made me think of Brennan in this scene.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter! I'm sorry I didn't get to individual replies, but I always appreciate your comments.

**Part 8**

_Booth_

We went to Wong Foo's, where Sid brought us two beers. The place wasn't very busy on a weeknight, or maybe the after-work crowd had already left.

At the bar, we sat in silence for a while. Today Brennan wore a crimson shirt under her black jacket. I hadn't noticed, in the heat of foiling a terrorist, how her skin looked pale against the blood-colored fabric.

When she spoke, she downplayed her role. "We'll tell the media it was an undercover operation."

"But it would be a Rose Garden ceremony. That's an honor, right?"

"There's no honor in taking someone's life. Not like that."

"But you saved so many people, Brennan. I'm really… I was impressed with you today."

She met my eyes, for once without appraisal, just appreciation. "I was impressed with you, too. I don't know how you could tell it was him, from the back. But… I needed that."

Toying with my beer glass, I kept my voice soft. "Why didn't you shoot him right away?"

Bren looked impatient, like it was obvious. "I had to be sure it was him."

"_I_ knew it was him. You don't trust me?" I raised an eyebrow so it seemed like teasing.

"It's not that. I had to see for myself."

"Any other reason?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Angela said something… that you went through some tough stuff in the Army."

That got her attention. "_What _did she say?"

"Not much. No specifics, really." I turned to look at her. "Is that how you hurt your shoulder?"

Her mouth opened in surprise. "How do you know about that?"

"Observation. It looks like you have some stiffness and reduced range of motion, with scapular elevation or retraction. The rotator cuff muscles are probably tender if subjected to unexpected stress. So, given your background, my natural conclusion…"

She stared at me like I was an alien being, then laughed humorlessly. "Well, since you know it already..." She lifted one shoulder. "You really wanna hear how I got this?"

I nodded.

Shaking her head, she looked at me for a long, long moment. I felt like my worthiness was being judged.

"Sid," she said flatly to the bartender. "I need a stronger drink. What have you got?"

He brought out a bottle of whiskey, and Brennan nodded. "Make it a double. Neat." Glancing at me to see if I wanted the same thing, Sid poured two tumblers and set them before us. I sipped mine; it tasted earthy and sharp.

Brennan swallowed a gulp of hers, exhaling loudly.

"It was June of '99, the height of the NATO bombings of Kosovo. My platoon was well southwest of that, doing support and supply missions, helping fix up the roads in Albania." Her sentences came slowly, but she sounded resolute.

"One night on this line haul… we're heading toward the border with Yugoslavia, going to rendezvous with US and NATO forces to drop off supplies.

"Somehow, we got off course. You don't need to know why—we still don't know exactly why. This is before everyone had GPS, it's hilly and rugged, it's dark, our convoy is bouncing along the road…" She paused to sip her drink.

"We came around a corner and saw headlights. It was this valley between the hills, and a bunch of Serb militia was waiting for us. I think we took each other by surprise; they only had a little advance notice we were there. But they wanted to do some damage while they had the chance.

"It was—a mess. I was in the front seat navigating. My friend Jackson was driving and he got hit almost right away. Some of our line pulled around to a more defensive position, but one truck crashed into a ditch, probably because the driver got hit, or because it was really muddy and we had no traction…" She stopped to take a breath, staring at the polished bar in front of her.

"I only had my M-9 with me, and that's too small to do much good. I couldn't get to the M-16, and I don't know how long I was pinned down in the truck, trying to get off some shots through the window but mostly keeping my head down.

"Eventually I realized that no one had gotten to the heavy weaponry. Maybe no one _could _get out, but I was on the side facing away from most of the action. I knew that just a little ways back, one of the humvees had the Mark 19 mounted on it."

I didn't want to interrupt, but I had no idea what that was.

Brennan glanced at me as if I'd asked a question. "MK19-3, forty millimeter grenade machine gun. The primary suppressive weapon for support and service units."

It sounded like she was reciting from a manual. I nodded and took another swallow of whiskey.

"So I rolled out of the cab and crawled partway, then ran alongside a couple trucks. When I was more exposed in-between vehicles, that's when I got hit in the back." Her shoulders had hunched up in the course of telling this story, and I saw her make a conscious effort to relax them. "It was just small caliber, though, and I barely knew it had happened until later.

"I climbed into the turret and just…" She held both fists up to mime the shooting action. "…laid down some cover fire."

When she paused, I took the bottle Sid had left and poured a little more into my glass, and hers. She looked at it without drinking.

"I don't know if that's what turned the tide, but it definitely helped. SFC O'Clare had gotten out the SAW, and she was lethal with it."

At least I had an idea on that acronym. "What type of automatic weapon?"

"M-249. Squad automatic weapon. She had it resting on the door of one truck, at least until…" Bren went silent for a moment. "Until she got hit."

I didn't know what to say. "That's, um… those sound like pretty hardcore weapons you had."

"Yeah." She wrapped one hand around her glass and stared into the liquid. "The Mark 19 has a five meter kill radius and a wound radius of fifteen. You only have to shoot in the general vicinity of your target, to do real damage."

Then she shook herself and gave me a wry look. "Don't get me wrong, I _wanted _to shoot them. We were getting the shit kicked out of us. So the more of them I took out, the fewer of us would get hurt. I mean…" Pulling up her sleeve, she revealed a pale scar on the back of her wrist. "See that? Shrapnel."

It didn't look deep, but it had left a definite mark. I wondered if she had others, in places she wouldn't show me.

"Finally," Bren went on, "they decided to retreat, firing parting shots the whole time. And that…" Her eyes looked without seeing at the multicolored bottles behind the bar. "Their last vehicle. It either stalled or got stuck, or maybe I blew out the tires with the Mark 19. I don't remember picking that target, but I was just going to keep shooting as long as I had ammo, to make sure they were leaving.

"So their truck was disabled, and the two guys inside had to make a run for the next one as it pulled away." She paused. "It was dark. I had the night vision on my scope, but still couldn't see the men clearly. I don't remember aiming at them, just the truck. But with bullet fragments flying around…

"The first man, he made it. The second, I shot in the back. Just like I'd been shot. Except that I was hit with a nine millimeter, and I could keep running. When I hit him with high-explosive, dual-purpose rounds… Well. He didn't keep running."

-.-.-.

Nautilus

.

This is how I cut myself open

—with a half pint of whiskey, then

there's enough dream to fall through

.

to pure bone and shell

where ocean has carved out

.

warm sea animals,

and has driven the night

dark and in me

.

like a labyrinth of knives.

-.-.-.

_Brennan_

Booth didn't respond right away.

I heard him let out a breath, like he'd been holding it. I realized my shoulders were knotted with tension, and that we both had our elbows on the bar, hunched over our drinks.

"Well, fuck." Booth glanced at me, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "That's quite a story."

"I guess it is. You _did _ask."

He looked rueful. "I did, didn't I?"

We laughed a little, and I felt suddenly better. I gulped more whiskey, feeling its warmth seep down into me.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: **We pick up right where the last chapter left off.

Thank you to my beta jsq. It's great to hear her say, 'I don't think you should change a thing.'

**Part 9 **

_Brennan_

Sid walked past, to hang a few clean glasses into empty spots on the rack. Half a dozen people sat behind us at tables, under the decorative fans and strings of lights. A middle-aged guy had come to the far end of the bar, but otherwise we had it to ourselves.

Booth looked up from the dregs in his glass. "I guess you've told this story to other people?"

I nodded. "Different parts of it. To my brother. And Angela." The memory made me smile, though it was more like a wince. "He swore, she cried. They both hugged me."

Booth paused, then deadpanned, "Do you want me to hug you?"

"Don't push it, partner."

"Oh, so we're partners now?"

I made an inarticulate sound, putting my head in my hands. I had objected to that term, before. But I just couldn't spar with him right now. "God, it's been a long day."

"Look." He sounded serious. "I think I understand. I see why you wouldn't shoot Farid without seeing his face. I mean… I feel the same way, about deer hunting. Sitting up in a tree stand with a rifle, just waiting to kill an animal who has no clue you're there? Doesn't seem very sporting. That's why I prefer bow hunting. You're on the ground, on a level playing field. It takes a lot more skill, tracking and moving silently…"

He realized I was staring at him. "You're comparing _war _to hunting deer for sport?"

"And food. Hunting for food, like our ancestors. But, yeah, I am making that comparison. Because we're talking about killing a fellow creature. Deer, pheasant, human… We share a significant percentage of our genetic code with all mammals, and even though deer are ungulates, they—"

"Booth. Stop." I looked at him, incredulous. He'd gotten pretty wrapped up in what he was saying. But I couldn't help noticing: between us on the bar sat a little candle holder, like the ones at the restaurant tables. It cast intriguing shadows on Booth's face.

"How far does your analogy extend?" I asked. "This kinship with fellow creatures." (So maybe I was ready to spar after all.) "Would you give a cockroach a fighting chance before you killed it? What about shrimp or tuna that you'd gladly eat in your lunch every day?"

"Okay, okay." He waved a hand in defeat. "I'm not one of those Buddhists who walk around sweeping their path so they don't accidentally step on a spider. I'm trying to agree with you here. It just doesn't seem right to shoot a deer through the heart, or shoot a man in the back."

He probably didn't mean that as a criticism, after the story I'd told him. But…

A server went by with a savory plate of egg rolls and my stomach rumbled. "Hey, Sid. Would you get me some of those?"

"Sure thing, T."

Booth raised his eyebrows. "T?" I shrugged, and he asked another question. "All this talk of war. It doesn't make you lose your appetite?" He seemed honestly curious, not trying to be callous.

"Nope." I sipped the last of my whiskey. "Other people are dead but I'm here. And if I'm guilty of certain things, I'm still glad to be alive."

He regarded me for a second. "I don't think you're guilty, Temperance. You were doing your job. I think you did the right thing, in both situations." His voice was very gentle.

I grunted, to belie the sting in my eyes and the ache in my throat. I didn't need his reassurance or his approval. So why did it feel so damn nice?

The egg rolls arrived. I grabbed one, biting into the crunchy wrap and tangy inside. Booth took one too, uninvited.

"Hey!"

"What?" he asked with his mouth full.

"Get your own."

"Come on, Bren." I hated when he called me that, especially when his eyes were sparkling. "Partners share things, right?"

"I'm pretty sure I never agreed to an egg-roll-sharing clause."

We ate and drank, joking on and off with Sid.

The whiskey had made me sleepy, and Booth caught me off guard when he said, "This officer you mentioned, O'Clare. Is that a coincidence, that your daughter's named Clare?"

I chewed and swallowed. "No. That's why I chose it."

He nodded, but I didn't give him anything else.

"You should be getting home to her, I guess."

I checked my watch. "Shit, you're right."

I _wanted _to go home, after a day like this. I wanted to hug Clare and kiss her all over. I wanted to hear her chatter about the games they'd played in daycare. I wanted to read her a story, then lie down next to her and listen to her breathing deepen into sleep.

But I also wanted to stay right here, with Booth.

I sighed, then dug in my pockets for money. Dropping my share on the bar, I nodded goodbye to Sid.

Booth looked up at me from his bar stool. "Bren…"

I paused next to him. His brown eyes were warm, and faint lines creased his forehead.

I've gotten pretty good at reading people, in this job, and right now, his emotions seemed clear. Mine probably were, too.

_Thank you_, he seemed to say, _for telling me all that._

I gave a half-shrug. _Thanks for listening._

He almost smiled, and looked ready to ask me something. I nearly asked him, in fact: _Come to my place. _

But I'd bared too much today, already.

"See you next case," I said softly.

As I left, I could feel him watching me.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: **Sorry for the missed week of posting. I actually had more time off, but spent most of it riding my blazing fast new road bike. 240 miles in the first five rides. :)

Thank you to jsq for reading and giving beta advice while on vacation!

**Part 10  
**_Booth_

Brennan seemed cautious after what she'd revealed. I don't think she regretted trusting me, but that war story was a tough one. And I would've told her something in return, if the situation seemed to call for it. I've seen how reciprocity in social interaction can be beneficial.

But then we began another case, and that brought its own set of challenges.

First thing in the morning, I met Brennan outside the Jeffersonian. Daisy would accompany us to the crime scene, but she was a few minutes late. Once she got in the car and we took off, Brennan started in on the case.

"There's a dead body at a prep school out in the middle of nowhere."

"Good morning to you too," I said.

From the backseat, Daisy leaned toward Brennan. "You're successful with men, right?"

Brennan ignored her. "It's a prestigious school, with a lot of rich and influential families."

"Isn't it a cultural convention to start with good morning?"

She ignored me, too, while Daisy pressed on.

"If a guy said to you, _take a chill pill,_ what would that mean? It was kind of gentle and teasing, but—"

"Let's just concentrate on the job." I could swear that for a second, Brennan looked amused. She adjusted her sunglasses in the morning light. "I know the sheriff out there and she's okay. But the school has a lot of pull in the county. The point is, it's not just another crime scene. It's a political situation, so pay attention and follow my lead out there."

Daisy was quiet for about five seconds. "Agent Brennan, you call after every sexual encounter, right? But not too soon, because you don't want to look clingy. I wonder—"

"This isn't personal time. It's work, and that is not an appropriate topic." She seemed to reconsider. "Why haven't you asked Angela these questions?"

"I've tried to. But she's been busy doing computer reconstructions of Etruscan burial crypts. And besides, she's an artist. I'm a scientist. I think our styles might be fundamentally opposed."

Daisy, I thought, was not a reserved person. Neither was Angela. Their 'styles' might be quite similar. But I decided not to point that out to my intern.

When I glanced at Brennan, I was sure she hid a smile. I remembered what Hodgins had told me, about her past relationship with Angela.

Now she reached to turn on the radio, her mouth still curving faintly. "Why don't we spend the rest of the drive in quiet contemplation."

-.-.-.

I sat at a booth at Wong Foo's, with Brennan and my team. Sid had already admonished us about keeping our voices down and the case photos hidden. Clearly he didn't think that talk about dead bodies was good for business. And the place was busy; we'd come for lunch right when everyone else did.

We dug into the food Sid had brought, commenting on his ability to guess our preferences. Hodgins was drooling over his seven-organ soup, while Daisy said, "This is exactly what I wanted. The guy has a knack, for sure."

Brennan cut in, verifying what my team had said about when the victim died. "Ten to fourteen days ago?"

I agreed. "Hodgins is very good at using insects to estimate time of death."

"Then how," she asked, "do you explain an email sent seven days ago from Nova Scotia?" She produced the paper and set it on the table. "There's something wrong here." Her nose wrinkled. "Hodgins, that soup stinks."

"It does." Angela tried to lean away.

"Oh, you've gotta taste it."

"No, I can smell it from here."

As I watched them, I saw one of the customers walking across the restaurant. He must have been at a corner table, out of my view, and was now leaving. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair peppered with gray.

I felt a shock of recognition: he looked like my dad.

"Angela, it's so good."

"Ugh, that's really gross."

I barely registered their voices, because my eyes had locked on the retreating figure. I'd almost seen his profile, but now all I saw was his back, threading his way between tables.

I couldn't let him go. Not without knowing.

I was already sitting at the edge of the seat, and started to get up.

"Booth?" Brennan's voice penetrated my brain. "Booth, what are you doing?"

"I, um…" The man was at the exit now. "I have to check something. I'll be right back." I dodged out and around the tables. At the door, I burst out onto the street and cast around. There. The man was heading purposefully down the sidewalk.

I ran up to him. Just as I drew alongside, I said the only thing that came to mind. "Excuse me, did you drop this? At the restaurant?" I felt foolish, taking my own cell phone out of my pocket.

He shook his head. His eyes were the wrong color, too pale. His facial bones, all wrong.

"Okay," I said. "It must be someone else's." He shrugged and went on his way.

I walked slowly back, wondering.

This hadn't happened to me in years. I used to think I saw him everywhere, soon after he disappeared. Each time had felt like this, jarring and unexpected.

As much as I hate analyzing my feelings, there was relief along with the disappointment. Relief because there would be no confrontation. Because my father couldn't be callous enough to have gone on with his life, shunning his family, and then show up under his own son's nose without so much as a hello.

I returned to the table and made my excuses. Since I'm never any good at lying, I didn't try. But I did attempt to look more cheerful than I felt. "I thought that was someone I knew from a long time ago, but it wasn't him. So," I changed the subject, "show me this email that the victim supposedly sent."

Brennan handed it over, though I felt her gaze on me. She'd want to pursue this line of inquiry, I was sure. But when I met her eyes, they looked gentle, rather than suspicious. She didn't ask me anything.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: **Thank you to my lovely and efficient beta jsq.

**Part 11**  
_Booth_

While Bren was grilling the victim's roommate about forging an email, Ambassador Olivos came to see me in my office.

I'm always leery of victim's families. What do they want from me? My job commitment doesn't waver, so seeing their teary faces isn't going to help matters.

She was composed, however. She asked me to watch a DVD of her son receiving his cochlear implant. The first thing he'd heard was her voice, saying that she loved him.

"The child who lived through this miracle would never take his own life." She argued that she and her husband had enemies. That the prep school had promised to ensure Nestor's safety. "If they failed, they might try to cover it up. They might try to bias you toward suicide."

I thought of what police officers had said, after my father vanished. When they didn't find many leads, they'd asked my mother, _Have you considered that he didn't want to be found? Or, if he was depressed and drinking a lot… he could have taken his own life. _

I looked the boy's mother in the eye. "I promise you, I will find out the truth."

-.-.-.

_Brennan_

I came to the lab to observe the squints' theories about the victim's hyoid bone. In an adolescent, they said, it shouldn't have broken. But they were at a loss to explain why it had. Angela ran through several simulations, to no avail. I appreciated her help, but now I needed to do something other than stand around and think. I took Booth with me to look at the victim's dorm room.

We argued most of the way there.

"Why can't we take my car?" he whined. "Is it too much to ask that I drive once in a while?"

"No, but I don't think you have bulletproof vests in your trunk."

"Bren. We're going to a school for over-privileged kids. I doubt we'll need bulletproof vests."

I shrugged. "You didn't take a tactical driving course at Quantico, either."

"Tactical driving?"

I could explain, but that wouldn't be much fun. Maybe a demonstration was in order. We'd recently turned off the highway; I checked that the roads ahead and behind were clear.

I wrenched the steering wheel around in such a sharp, precise U-turn that the car nearly went up on two wheels.

Booth grabbed for the handle over his door, but didn't make a sound. It took him a while to respond. "Okay." His voice squeaked. "Point taken." He glanced over at me. "You're quite a smart ass, aren't you?"

I smiled, turning the car gently back in the right direction. "I am rather intelligent, but it has nothing to do with my ass."

He must not have had another quip at the ready, so we rode in silence for a few minutes.

"Angela thinks it's possible Nestor killed himself," I said, returning to the case. "She mentioned it yesterday: If you take a sensitive adolescent in a high-achieving prep school, add in pressure from parents, social alienation and cultural differences, it could lead to suicide."

Booth grunted, but didn't offer feedback.

"I have a feeling about this, and I don't think she's right. Because—"

"A _feeling_?" he interrupted.

"Yeah. You know, a gut feeling. I've learned to trust that."

Booth shook his head. "That's a bunch of crap."

My voice rose. "How do you know?"

"Because it's just the sort of thing you _can't_ trust. Your feelings are too subjective, influenced by any number of factors. They don't matter. Just evidence."

"I think you're wrong. Besides, you said the ambassador made a compelling case against her son's suicide. It's our responsibility to expose it, if the school did do some kind of cover up."

Booth grunted again. "I didn't say she had a _compelling_case."

"Well, it clearly affected you. It would affect anyone."

"No, it didn't affect me. I would never let it influence my findings." He jabbed one finger at the dashboard in emphasis. "We don't know what happened. We can't assume anything. We just investigate until we find enough evidence that will reveal the truth."

He seemed awfully sensitive about this. I wondered if it had anything to do with his strange behavior at the restaurant, and that man he'd followed. But now didn't seem like the time to ask him about it.

-.-.-.

We had reached the base of the stairs up to Nestor's room when I caught sight of the stranger. He was dressed in a dark blazer, and didn't quite hide his alarm when he saw us. He turned and ran back up the stairs.

"Stay here," I hissed to Booth.

"Yeah, right." He tried to push past me and go first, but I was faster. I dashed up to the second floor, hearing him hurrying after me.

The man we pursued could be one of the ambassador's enemies, or someone doing the school's dirty work, disposing of evidence.

I saw him duck into Nestor's room, and I when I burst in, I knew he'd hidden behind the door. He sprang out, and I caught him with a kick to the groin. Then as he stumbled forward, I tripped him neatly. He sprawled on the ground, but before I could keep him there with a heel to the throat, he'd rolled to his feet.

Booth foiled my plan, too, by brushing past me and squaring off against our adversary. The stranger took a swing, which Booth dodged expertly. Then he landed three swift blows to the man's face, stunning him. I watched him collapse onto the floor.

Booth turned to me, panting. "Are you all right?"

I raised my brows. "Are _you_?"

He blew out a breath of air, then grinned from pure excitement. I shook my head, trying not to smile as I bent over the unconscious man. "Let's check him for weapons and ID." I couldn't resist adding, "You might want to run more sprints in your training, so you're not so far behind me next time."  
-.-.-.

The man we'd chased worked as security at the Venezuelan embassy. Ambassador Olivos admitted she'd sent him to prove that an outsider could get into the school and potentially hurt her son.

Booth and I searched the boy's room. We found the sex tapes that he—or his roommate—had made, and I questioned the girl in the video.

Then I returned to the lab, where Hodgins announced, "Pupal casings show the boy ingested a heavy dose of ketamine before he died."

"Maybe that explains why he didn't struggle during the hanging," I said.

Booth had to play devil's advocate. "Or, crazy thought, maybe he took it himself for fun, like most kids do." I studied him. He stared back at me belligerently, but I was sure he didn't like the idea of suicide any more than I did. Still, he was determined, with his mania for science, to consider all sides of the issue.

Angela came out of her office to greet us, and during a lull in conversation, Daisy sidled up to me. "Agent Brennan, maybe later, could I ask you about sexual positions?"

"Absolutely not. I will kick your ass if you even try."

"She has a black belt, you know," Angela said helpfully.

As soon as Booth had given Daisy another task and she was out of earshot, I poked Angela's arm. "Why haven't you given her some advice, so she'll stop asking me?"

She sighed. "I know, I keep avoiding her. Saying I've been busy, which is actually true. She's just such a handful. So needy! And enthusiastic, but going about things all wrong. I don't want to hurt her feelings, even if she is irritating."

"I can understand that. Will you please just talk to her?"

"Okay… but you owe me one."

Hodgins had been groaning about heartburn, and that seemed to give Booth an idea. "That's what explains the hyoid break. Digestive juices rising into the esophagus…" He went to a monitor and called up bone scans. "These marks here and here… that's scoring consistent with hydrochloric acid."

Armed with this information, he had Angela run another simulation. We watched the image on the three-dimensional screen, while Booth narrated. "The combination of ketamine plus choking could hold gastric juices in the upper throat and weaken the hyoid. There." He gestured at the screen, his voice flat. "It's consistent with suicide."

"I don't accept that."

"You have to. It's a fact."

He looked so miserable that I had to do something. "Booth. Come get coffee with me. We'll keep investigating. We'll just take a break for a while."

He looked ready to refuse, but then nodded darkly, and followed me out.

We walked through the museum grounds, heading west toward the national monuments. We didn't speak for long minutes, just wandered and watched the people around us. Dog walkers, runners, business men and women on cell phones. The day was cool and overcast, so the tall spire of the Washington Monument didn't cast a shadow.

We bought coffee at a cart by the reflecting pool. Booth found a bench under a tree and we sat down.

"Angela tends to think like you, you know." He wrapped his hands around his cup like he was cold. "She asked me earlier, 'Do you ever _know _something is true? Not just hope it is. But know it, despite evidence?' And I don't. I can't. Even if I want to." He sighed. "I feel like everyone has an agenda in this case. The school, the boy's mother, even the sheriff. I'm the only one who cares about the truth."

"You're not the only one." I touched his arm, and the fierceness in my own voice surprised me.

Booth turned his gaze on me. I could see the flecks of hazel in his brown eyes and a tiny scar on his forehead. I didn't know how I'd come to think so highly of him in such a short time. I just knew I wanted him to keep looking at me like that. As if he could see my thoughts and intentions, that he approved, and was warmed by them.

He smiled a little. "Thanks, Bren."

I looked out over the pool, pewter gray like the sky. "That man at Wong Foo's," I asked, "did he remind you of your dad?"

Booth glanced sharply at me. "How did you know that?"

"Educated guess."

He sighed. "He didn't look like him, not really. His eyes weren't brown. He was probably too young. His zygomatic arches were the wrong shape."

"I used to do that. With my mom." I hadn't realized I was going to say it, but decided to press on. "She died when I was fifteen, but I never… It was hard to believe she was gone. I'd still expect her to be waiting for me after school, and a few times I could swear I saw her on the street, or at a grocery store…"

Booth's voice was hard. "But you knew she was dead."

"Yeah. At least I knew for sure."

"I feel like…" He winced, probably realizing he'd said _feel_. "He has to be dead, after all this time. It's the most likely scenario. Whether illness or accident, foul play, or… suicide."

I could tell that last one was hard to contemplate. "What do you think happened?"

"You mean do I have a gut feeling about it?" he said dryly.

"Do you?"

"No. I mean… I don't know. Maybe I wouldn't know one if it hit me in the face."

I smiled at that. "You do have to work at it sometimes. I know you don't believe it works, trusting your gut. But it's worked for me. I had to learn _something_, back when…" I stared down at my coffee, then started over. "It was high school. Russ and I were on our own, he was working a lot... I learned to make quick judgments about people. Who might be an ally, who was out to get you, who was merely indifferent. I had to change schools a couple times, so I got a lot of practice. At reading people, and at lying."

"Lying?"

"I'd just found out my parents were bank robbers. My mother was dead and my dad was in jail for avenging her. You think that's going to go over well with my peers?"

"No, I get it. I sure as hell didn't want people knowing my father was an alcoholic who abandoned us."

I remembered the stares and whispers when kids had found out my background. Some of them were scared off, even impressed. But others had to taunt me. I'd gotten in a couple fights over the things they'd said. And I could see a younger version of Booth doing the same thing.

The research I'd done into his background—all that information was pretty old. "People have given up looking for your dad, haven't they?"

"A long time ago."

"Do you want me to…" He lifted his head. "I could take a look at the file, if you like. To see if the leads are really dead ends."

Warring emotions passed over his face, and his voice sounded cautious. "Are you sure? It's, uh… it's a big thing."

"I know." Unless I had spare time at the Bureau, it would take away from my off hours, with Clare. But I would do it for Booth. "There's no harm in another set of eyes looking, is there?"

"No. You're right." The caution melted away, and he seemed, for the first time during this case, hopeful. "Thanks."

I took a noisy slurp of coffee to smooth over the moment.

"So, Bren," he said lightly. "What's your famous gut tell you about me?" His eyebrows moved mischievously. "Friend or enemy?"

"You?" I nudged him with my elbow. "I'd say you can be both at the same time."


End file.
